The Long Skeleton

By Frances Lockridge and Richard Lockridge

When a television hostess is killed in their hotel, Mr. and Mrs. North investigate the murder of America’s girl next door

From coast to coast, everyone in America knows the smiling face of Amanda Towne. The most celebrated interviewer on television, she’s a beacon of honesty and warmth . . . when the cameras are rolling. Amanda will do whatever it takes to stay at the top of her profession, and she doesn’t mind stepping on the little people—until the day someone stops her in her tracks.

Amanda doesn’t know it, but her decorating advice is the reason Pamela North has decided to repaint her apartment. But when Mr. North comes home and finds the fumes unbearable, the couple checks into the Breckenridge Hotel, whose famous suites are large enough for Pam; Jerry; their cat, Martini . . . and Amanda Towne, whom Jerry finds lying dead on the bed. The story of who put her there is simply unbelievable, even by the standards of primetime television.

The Long Skeleton is the 22nd book in the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Mar 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504031424

Frances Lockridge

Frances and Richard Lockridge were some of the most popular names in mystery during the forties and fifties. Having written numerous novels and stories, the husband-and-wife team was most famous for their Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries. What started in 1936 as a series of stories written for the New Yorker turned into twenty-six novels, including adaptions for Broadway, film, television, and radio. The Lockridges continued writing together until Frances’s death in 1963, after which Richard discontinued the Mr. and Mrs. North series and wrote other works until his own death in 1982.

Book preview

I

The sweep hand of the electric wall clock trotted downstairs to 30 and began to trot up again. An assistant director held his right hand beyond his right ear, the index finger pointed stiffly upward. Amanda Towne looked at the tiny watch on her wrist with an expression of aggrieved surprise and shook her head at it, a lady betrayed by time. She turned—but not too far, with chin up—to the Grandmother of the Year, who sat beside her on the sofa, and shared with her, for two seconds by the count, the realization that the best of things must end.

The assistant director brought his finger down, as if it were a pistol and he a duelist. Amanda Towne turned to face front again, the camera shifted slightly, eliminating the Grandmother of the Year from further consideration.

Isn’t she just lovely? Amanda Towne enquired, with a lilt—and just a touch of Arkansas—in her voice. "I know all of you out there wish she could just go on and on—and on. But— She did not finish that; she moved graceful hands a little in resignation. She leaned forward slightly; her eyes were bright and her even teeth were brighter still on television screens from coast to coast. Take care of yourselves, dear people, she said. Do take care of yourselves. And now Jimmy has a word for you about our next guests and—" Again she did not finish, not in words. Her smile, for two seconds, lingered like a benediction.

Her face, and the smile with it, vanished from the monitor. It was replaced by the fatherly face of James Fergus, who said, "Thank you, Amanda Towne. And now, before I tell you about Friday’s People Next Door, a word about Fluff, the deep penetrating—"

The camera was off Amanda Towne, the microphone which had dangled above her head—and the head of the Grandmother of the Year—climbed up its cable. I— the Grandmother of the Year began, and Amanda put a finger to her lips, —until Friday at the same time, the monitor said, in a soft deep voice, when once more we will get together with the People Next Door in this great land of ours, goodbye and good luck from Amanda Towne and all of us. This is James Fergus speaking.

Amanda Towne took the finger from her lips; the smile came away with it.

You were fine, Mrs. Burney, she said. Just fine.

I thought— the Grandmother of the Year said.

Just fine, Miss Amanda Towne said firmly. I’m sure they all loved you. She stood up. My God, Jimmy, she said. Do you have to make it sound so damn much like a funeral? Can’t you get just a little— She did not finish this, either. She shrugged. I suppose not, she said. I suppose you just can’t, can you?

She turned away from James Fergus, who flushed a little, flushed slowly, and whose round face sagged a little.

I— the Grandmother of the Year said, just want to—

You were fine, Amanda told her, and for an instant a smile came back—a trickle of a smile. We all so much appreciated—oh, there you are.

She spoke over Mrs. Burney, whose sixteen grandchildren were doing so well, in so many places. She spoke to a short, heavy woman with sharp black eyes, with hair blacker than her eyes.

Well? Amanda Towne said.

The black-haired woman nodded briefly. She made, with thumb and middle finger of her right hand, an approving circle. She advanced on Mrs. Burney, who was slight and gray. She said, Wonderful, my dear. Let me help you find your things, and seemed to engulf the Grandmother of the Year as she led her off.

Whew! Amanda Towne said and looked around the studio, now with no smile at all. She said, Tony! Tony Gray!

"Yes ma’am," Tony Gray said, and appeared from behind a camera. He was wiry; he had red hair. He wore an expression of somewhat intense innocence.

Well? Amanda said, without sympathy. He started to speak, but was not permitted. Don’t try it, Amanda told him. You talked to her. Well?

All right, Tony Gray said. She froze a little, maybe.

‘Yes, Miss Towne,’ Amanda said. ‘No, Miss Towne.’ ‘I guess that’s right, Miss Towne.’ ‘I really couldn’t say about that, Miss Towne.’

Now Mandy, Tony Gray said. She froze. Every now and then it’s bound to happen. Some of ’em do. Some don’t. Chipper’s a sparrow when I talked to her.

She should have been a sparrow, Amanda Towne told him. I’d rather interview a sparrow. With a flock of sparrow grandchildren.

It wasn’t that bad, Gray said. She’s a sweet old thing. That came over. Relax, Mandy. Some of ’em will always freeze. Even on People Next Door. I—

All tucked away in a cab, the black-haired woman said, from half across the studio. Now don’t get all worked up, Mandy.

You heard it, Amanda Towne said. Watched me prying words out with a crowbar. Smiling until my damned teeth ached. And Tony says some of them will always freeze. And you say don’t get worked up. And—

There, Alice Fleming said. There ducky.

She and Tony Gray looked at each other, briefly.

Humor her, Amanda Towne said. Smooth her down. Butter her up.

Mandy, Alice Fleming said, so maybe the last ten minutes was a little sticky. The rest was like silk. You tell her, Tony.

Like silk, Tony Gray said. In the groove, precisely. He grinned at Amanda. Trouble is, he said, "you want to turn up an Honorable Parkman every day. Editorial in the Times today."

With credit?

Well, Tony said, "‘a popular afternoon TV program.’ And, ‘a leading woman interviewer.’ This was the Times, Mandy. We can’t have everything."

Amanda Towne laughed, briefly, but her brief laugh tinkled. Alice Fleming sighed, with the beginning of relaxation. Mandy was coming out of it; Mandy always came out of it, just as she always went into it. Well, if she didn’t get keyed up, she wouldn’t be Mandy—wouldn’t be Amanda Towne, coast to coast and two stations in Canada; Amanda Towne, with more sponsors than you could shake a stick at (if sticks were ever shaken at sponsors) or work into an hour’s show; Amanda Towne with a waiting list of ready-mixes, and things that cured and other things which penetrated deeply.

He called me up, Amanda said. Said, wasn’t there anything I could do? I said, such as what Mr. Parkman? Innocent-like.

Arkansas returned, a little, to her voice, as it did when she was coming out of it, and remembering she was Amanda Towne, coast to coast, with a waiting list, neighbor to all next doors and folksy as they came.

He seemed, Amanda Towne said, to think I’d led him on. Imagine that.

They imagined it. Alice Fleming, business manager of Amanda Towne imagined it; Tony Gray, pre-broadcast interviewer for Amanda Towne, legman for Amanda Towne, imagined it. The three of them laughed happily.

What a notion! Tony said. As if you’d do a thing like that!

That, Amanda said, is what I told him. Innocent little me.

This was even funnier; they laughed contentedly at this.

All the same, Tony Gray said, he’s out of business.

Amanda looked reflectively at a sign which said, Positively No Smoking, and lighted a cigarette. She dragged at it deeply. Mrs. Alice Fleming sighed again, in further relief. Amanda was continuing to unwind.

To be perfectly honest, Amanda said, and at that Tony Gray did not quite raise his reddish eyebrows, I was innocent, in a mild way. I wanted to let a little stuffing out, but— She moved her shoulders slightly under the beautifully fitting jacket of her suit. And after all, all he said was—

The connotation, ducky, Mrs. Fleming said. "You and he together against a vulgar world. And don’t tell me you didn’t give him that idea. Don’t tell me!"

The little finger, Tony said, quickly, and was smiled at for his trouble. The famous little finger of Amanda Towne, celebrated—

All right, Amanda said. You’ve done your bits. Both of you. But just the same, Tony, one more—

She did not finish that, or need to. Tony waited briefly, although he did not expect her to finish—or want her to finish.

About the other thing? he said. The one you clam up about?

We’ll see, Amanda said. That is, I’ll see.

She nodded, agreeing with herself.

And, she said, no innocence this time. Well?

Yes, ducky, Mrs. Alice Fleming said. You want to sit in with Bart and me?

And wished she hadn’t, because Amanda Towne’s blue eyes narrowed a little, and iced a little.

That, she said, is something you ought to be able to handle, darling. She paused. That—anyway, she said. Considering— She paused longer. Everything, she said, and put a fur stole around her shoulders. And went.

Tony Gray and Alice Fleming watched her go.

Chip on her shoulder today, Tony said. Nice mink chip. He lighted a cigarette of his own. Of course, he said, it takes all kinds to make a meal-ticket, I always say.

I wouldn’t, Alice Fleming told him, always say it out loud, sonny.

"Do take care of yourselves," the clear and friendly voice pleaded from the television set and Pamela North, thus admonished, took the most immediate step, which seemed to be to turn a knob. As the knob turned the whitest of smiles diminished until it was only the brightness of perfect teeth. Like the Cheshire Cat, Pam North thought, and then there was only a white dot in the center of the screen—a dot so hotly white that one would have thought it could burn through glass. It never had, Pam told herself, and thought, So that’s Amanda Towne, and all you have to do, really, to have grandchildren is to make a start and wait to see what happens, although that doesn’t, certainly, ensure that one grandchild will be a judge and another president of a college. (Even a small college.) The poor thing was scared stiff, Pam North thought, and I hope Mr. Prentori isn’t going to be late.

Mr. Prentori was not; Mr. Prentori came most carefully on his hour, which was three o’clock of the afternoon of Wednesday, November thirteenth. The doorbell rang twice, shortly, and Martini, last of her tribe (who had been comfortable on a chair, watching Amanda Towne with a hard blue gaze), vanished, more rapidly than any Cheshire Cat. Thinks it’s the vet again, poor baby, Pam thought, and went to the door, where Mr. Prentori waited with buckets. You’re right on time, Pam said, keeping the astonishment out of her voice, and Mr. Prentori said, Sure, why not?, to which there was no answer. (Except that painters never are, which would have been unkind.)

Mr. Prentori came into the living room of the apartment and regarded it. Flattener streaked through last time, didn’t it? Mr. Prentori said, rather darkly. You want the same color, I guess? With this, a kind of eager cheerfulness invaded his voice.

No, Pam said. I’m afraid not, Mr. Prentori.

Oh, Mr. Prentori said. He sighed, rather ostentatiously. He said, Well. He said, The whole apartment, the man said. Same colors in the other rooms?

No, Pam said. I’m afraid not, Mr. Prentori. Mr. Prentori, boss painter, had large brown eyes. Sadness dripped from them.

Everything different? he said, hoping against hope.

I’m afraid so, Pam said.

You’ve got ideas what you want?

It was hard to break it to Mr. Prentori. Pam steeled herself. She said, Yes, and the word hung in the room, like the last sad peal of a dirge of bells.

In here, Pam said, we thought—a kind of warm gray? With just a touch of something? Green? But not a green green, if you know what I mean?

No, Mr. Prentori said. "How would I know what you mean, Mrs. North? A warm green?"

It was, Pam thought, going to be as it always was, as every two years it was. This would be one for that Amanda Towne, full of helpful hints for housewives, knowing easier ways to do almost everything. One had only to look at Amanda Towne, bright and clear on television, mistress of everything, to know that boss painters would be malleable in her expert hands. Malleable as, for example, putty, which seemed appropriate.

Have to put on a sizing coat, Mr. Prentori said. Streaked the way it is with flattener. Green isn’t a warm color, Mrs. North. He looked around the room again. Your husband do this himself last time? he asked, his voice as lacking in warmth as the color green.

My husband, Pam said, can’t stand the smell of paint. It makes him sick.

Makes me sick too, Mr. Prentori said. But there you are.

It was not clear to Pamela North quite where they were. Painters, Pam thought, do slip through your fingers somehow. Because there are no words for colors, as there are no words for the sound of music, a kind of evasiveness, deriving from the medium, pervades the character; because—

Well, Mr. Prentori said, we may as well try. Start with gray and see. He spread a paint-spattered canvas. He grouped buckets and cans. He said, Personally, I’d say an off-white. Room’s sort of dark and—

Gray, Pam North said. A soft gray, with a little green, but as warm as—

Too much like butter— Pam said, much later, in another room. No, not so pink. Hardly pink at all, she said, some time after that. A little more something, she said, at a quarter after four in the last room, slightly ill from the smell of paint, colors swimming meaninglessly behind her eyes—green only another gray, pink (but not really pink) hardly to be told from magenta; all decisiveness lost and all assurance and, in some mysterious fashion achieved, a spot of paint (pink? warm gray?) on the very tip of her nose.

It was so, collapsed in a chair, Martini on her lap, that Jerry found her at five, home early from the office. Jerry opened the door and put his head in and said, Oh-my-God-no! and pulled his head out again, and breathed deeply of the corridor air (not in itself anything to send blood coursing through veins) and went in, holding his breath as long as he could. Martini left Pam’s lap to greet, aggrievedly, with protest in a penetrating Siamese voice. Pam continued to stare at a wall streaked with paint in slightly different intensities. She said, Hello, Jerry, in a small and distant voice. He leaned over the chair and kissed her. You taste of paint, he said.

Everything does, Pam said.

I’d forgotten, Jerry said. I know you told me, but—Freud, I suppose.

It was time, Pam said, disconsolately. It’s been two years. Mr. Prentori said the streaks are flattener, whatever that is. He says maybe by Saturday night, except that will mean overtime and it’s up to the man, whoever he is, so probably it won’t be until Monday. And I can’t tell one color from another any more. Do you want—?

No, Jerry said. Whatever you’ve decided. When?

Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Pam said. Of course we could—the way we did last time—only it means—because Martini’s the only one now and all by herself—and anyway—do you think we ought to?

It is sometimes contended, by the inexperienced, that Pamela North is not always lucid in speech; she has even, by some, been accused of ellipsis.

Have you tried? Jerry asked her. She nodded.

Most of them don’t like cats, she said. The Breckenridge says, only if it’s a suite, and we’re responsible for chairs and things.

How much? Jerry said.

Well, Pam said, thirty-five, actually.

Gerald North said, Ouch.

Paint makes her sick, too, Pam said. And that means the vet.

Jerry shuddered slightly.

Of course, Pam said, nobody ever said we had to have a cat.

Martini said something like Oo-wow-oo! on a protracted note, dismissing this nonsense.

Martha doesn’t mind coming down early to let them in, Pam said. And it might be only until late Saturday and—

Pam, Jerry said, did you reserve?

Well, Pam said, it’s you the paint makes sick mostly, and they want to start in the bedroom and everything will taste of it, including cocktails, but of course— She stopped, being looked at. Yes, Pam said.

And pack?

Well—

Stately is perhaps the word for the Hotel Breckenridge, just off Fifth in Manhattan’s Fifties, although the term spacious also is employed, particularly by the management. The lobbies are extensive, and dignity prevails, and the restaurant most frequented is wood paneled, with small, red-shaded, lamps on tables. It is not always possible to see precisely what one is eating, but the flavors are gratifying. Spaciousness extends to the upper floors; the suite provided the Norths, complete with the cat named Martini, who spoke harshly through the grating of the traveling box she detests, would have been more than ample for a much larger family. Even Martini, who is assiduous, tired after she had smelled only the living room, left bedroom and bath for the future, and curled under a chair—under it, just in case, having lived a dozen years by taking thought in such matters. In strange places, a cat never knows.

The living room was long, with windows at the end which opened on a court. The living room was also extravagantly wide; the bedroom was only a little smaller, and the two beds were double beds. The bathroom, which opened from the entrance hall, had a tub in which Jerry could—if he chose, as he did not, being a man for showers—lie full length, and in which Pam could, briefly at any rate, have swum. In two words, Pam summarized the amplitude of the Hotel Breckenridge. My goodness! Pam said, with conviction.

It was six when they checked in—the reservation ready, a cat (providing compensation was guaranteed for clawed fabrics or other nuisances) acceptable. It was a little after seven when they went out to dinner, bathed and fortified by martinis, those also spacious, brought to the room.

It was a quarter of eleven when they returned, having dined pleasantly, although not in the paneled restaurant of the Breckenridge—It makes me feel like the last century, Pam explained and added, after a moment’s thought, and to clarify, any last century. They had seen the latter two-thirds of a movie, those being, Pam feels, the two-thirds most worth seeing, since during them, if ever, things happen.

Lights burned softly in the living room when they went into it and, when called, Martini came out from under a sofa, stretched and commented briefly, but with profanity—with profanity of a certain kind. Oh dear! Pam North said, "we couldn’t have! and turned back to look toward the bathroom. Damn! Pam said, and walked to the bathroom and opened the closed door. Yah!" Martini said, with bitterness, and went into the bathroom, her rear end wagging indignation. The sound of a cat scratching torn newspaper emerged from the bathroom; the sound was violent, being occasioned by a cat whose patience had been tried almost—the Norths hoped not quite—to the breaking point.

Which of us? Pam said, and Jerry shook his head, and thought neither, which was momentarily mysterious. He had—he was very sure he had—checked on the bathroom door as they went out, made sure it was open for Martini’s needs.

Of course, Pam said, she could have closed it herself, I suppose, although it’s hard to see why, and if she did, she’d be inside. Unless— She did not finish, but walked quickly toward the bedroom. That’s it, she said, speaking into the bedroom from the doorway. The maid to turn down the— And she stopped there—stopped so suddenly, so much as if her breath had been cut off, that Jerry, reaching for the door of the hall closet, whirled, still holding his topcoat.

Pam did not call out, and did not scream. But her slim right hand clung to the doorframe as if, without support, she would have fallen. Jerry was behind her, his topcoat dropped to the floor and forgotten there, and held her shoulders and looked over her head into the bedroom—looked at what she saw, at what had caught the breath from her.

A woman Jerry had never seen before lay on the bed most distant from the door. She was dressed in a gray suit, the jacket neatly buttoned. She lay on her back, her head on one of the pillows of the turned-down bed. She might have lain down to rest and fallen gently asleep, and Jerry, looking into the softly lighted room, almost spoke the word which would—which surely would—awaken her. But he knew before he spoke that she would not hear the word. Her eyes were open, so she did not sleep; she lay, now looked at more carefully, with a curious stiffness. And the clearly modeled face had

Reviews for The Long Skeleton

[antiquary_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A late entry in the Lockridges' best-known series about the stylish and witty North couple. Mr. North is a publisher, and in this book his publishing company is planning to bring out a novel about a very unpleasant murderer, who turns out to be a real person --Mr. North is afraid of a libel suit, but the murderer may have more drastic plans. Meanwhile, the Norths have had to leave their apartment (which is being painted) for a hotel room, where they discover the body of Amanda Towne, a popular (with the public) but rather unpleasant (in private) TV interviewer who may have pushed one of her interviews too far. One sidelight --in this story the Norths are down to the last one of their family of Siamese cats.